


Scenes From the End

by kimenem



Series: Screechers 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Angst, Canon Compliant, Dystopian, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Non-Linear Narrative, SPN Reverse Bang 2019, Survival, not sam or dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-14
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21743365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimenem/pseuds/kimenem
Summary: When it all went up in flames, screams, and screechers, the Winchester brothers learned to keep their hearts tucked in tight behind iron walls. There was no point in ever becoming a part of something bigger than themselves. Less attachment was better. They had each other and they would survive together.As they watched the smoke of their little community drift in the air, Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and turned to face him. “You and me, Sammy,” he said, resolutely, “just you and me.”
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Series: Screechers 'Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656334
Comments: 62
Kudos: 80
Collections: 2019 Supernatural Reversebang Challenge





	Scenes From the End

**Author's Note:**

  * For [quickreaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/gifts).



> What a delightful challenge this has been! [Quickreaver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quickreaver/pseuds/quickreaver) is full of talent and a gracious soul. The mods at SPN Reverse Bang are top notch. 
> 
> Check out Quickreaver's art post - [SO GORGEOUS](https://quickreaver.livejournal.com/171326.html) \- and give her lots of love.
> 
> Special thanks to Lea ([TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving/pseuds/TheyDraggedMeInNowIAintLeaving)) for her patient beta work and incredible encouragement.

****

****

**Beginning of the End**

  
_Before_

Sam and Dean Winchester were just 13 and 17, respectively, when The End came. They were happily minding their own business, noses down in school books, focusing on exams and fussing over school dances. Life consisted of friends, family, a faithful dog and potential girlfriends. Their father, John, a well-respected auto shop owner in Lawrence, Kansas, was busy, but not too busy to catch every ball game. Their mother, Mary, a consultant, took care of what needed to be done around the home. There was always dinner on the table. She rarely actually made it herself, but it was always there.

The boys had a habit of crashing in the living room on Friday nights. They could stay up late after their parents had gone to bed and end up waking up already in place for Saturday morning TV. It was their brotherly version of a sleepover. Dean had really meant to put a stop to this by now. He was 17 and way too cool to be spending Friday night with his nerdy little brother. But he always seemed to find himself in the same spot each Friday.

One Friday, in the fall of 1996, the four Winchesters and their dog Toby gathered around the TV for the Friday night TV lineup. A breaking news segment disrupted their program. Dean thought it was a mix up in the cable connection at first. The news anchor seemed frazzled and confused. Dean didn’t remember what was said that first night, but he did remember his mother sitting up from where she was tucked under John’s arm, quickly alert and suddenly tense. Without a word, she got up and went to her home office. The door clicked shut behind her.

Eventually their dad turned off the TV, told the boys to put in a video from their abundant collection, and went off to ‘make some calls’. Dean and Sam both shrugged, put in _Speed_ , and fell asleep to the sound of a bus and driver that couldn’t seem to stop.

The click of changing channels greeted them both on that Saturday morning. Their dad stood stoic in front of the TV, switching each channel in a predictable rhythm. But every scene was the same, no matter how many times he pressed the button. Frazzled and confused news anchors. Scenes of chaos and horror.

That weekend was spent in the living room, gathered around the TV with their father. Their mother stayed in her office, only coming out for the bathroom or to whisper something to John. Dean and Sam could hear phones ringing on and off, and their mother's voice rising and falling for hours and hours.

By Sunday, static had replaced one station. They didn’t go to school and the boys were not allowed to leave the house. On Monday, two channels were down. A couple of weeks later, every channel on the TV was filled with black and white fuzz. The non-stop ringing of multiple phones in their mother’s office filled the void that the TV left.

Dean was aware enough during this time to switch into high gear on what was important. Mom and Dad were busy, so that meant Dean was taking care of Sam and the house, for however long he was needed. And he was going to do just that. He made sure they all ate. He made Sam keep studying, no matter how much Sam complained, worried, and angsted. Sam definitely didn’t understand what was going on and his moody, teenage brain was fighting back against anyone who came within striking distance. John would check in with them each day and just say “we’re okay, here, don’t worry boys.” The fear and uncertainty built as each day passed.

Snippets of conversation slipped into Dean’s periphery. Epidemic. Source of contamination. Method of transmission. Something about screaming. Plans and strategies. Zones and sectors.

A few weeks after the beginning of The End, Mary Winchester packed a duffle bag with clothes and supplies and hugged her children tight. She was going away for a few days to help with what was going on. To be a hero. Dean had always known his mom was something special. But he definitely didn’t want her to go. Not now. He swallowed his objection and just hugged his mom back. When he opened his mouth to say goodbye, all that came out was “come back.”

Mary gave a small laugh and ruffled Dean’s hair. He was way too old for that, but he smiled anyway. “Don’t worry, Dean, I will,” she said. Then she eyed each Winchester man individually, “Take care of each other.”

Dean watched his mother get in a truck with someone who was waiting at the curb. His eyes trailed her until she vanished down the road.

Mary Winchester never came back.

****

**21**

_Present_

“I’m going to turn in for the night. I’m tired,” Sam says, stretching his long arms over his head and yawning. His breath comes out a white mist in the cold desert air. They’ve been walking for five days straight, still heading north, about to break into what was once Montana. It’s been a long, quiet, and exhausting journey.

“No, not yet, hold up a sec.” Dean puts a hand on his brother’s shoulder and guides him to the big downed tree limb they’ve propped up for a seat beside their tent. “Here, sit,” he instructs.

Rummaging around in his backpack, Dean finds what he’s searching for and looks up in triumph. “Happy birthday, Sammy,” Dean says, grinning as he hands Sam a small package. “You’re officially getting old.”

Sam beams at his brother. “Thanks, man.” He turns the package over in his hands, examining the newspaper wrapping and the twine holding it together. The light of the campfire in front of them illuminates the gift, casting shadows over pockets on the uneven surface. “But why today?”

“Well, I think we’re within a week of the right day. At least as far as I can guess, based on when I was last trying to keep count. We’re somewhere around the 1st week of May, 2004. So today is as good as any day.”

“Well, I guess it's official then. I am getting old,” Sam says, his eyes lighting up. Lacking patience, Sam rips open the paper, tossing it in the dirt, and reveals a wrist watch. Sturdy black leather wraps around to meet a steel watch face with elegant details.

“You remembered,” Sam breathes out, astonished. “It’s just like Dad’s. How…” He trails off and looks up at his brother through his shaggy bangs. But Dean is looking at the ground and toeing the dirt.

“How did you find this?” Sam asks, still stunned, eyes watering.

“Kept my eyes peeled. You know how it is. You never know what you’ll find around. I got lucky.” Dean toes the dirt a bit longer, but finally looks at his brother. “Found some batteries that seemed to work, too. I set it to the right time in the last town we passed through, so it should still be somewhat right.”

Sam just reverently holds the item and lets a few moments pass. “God, I miss him.” Dean doesn’t say anything, just nods. Once Sam has gathered himself, he sets the package down on the log beside him, and rummages through his own bag.

“I got you something, too,” Sam mutters, almost too low for Dean to hear.

“What for?”

“For my birthday,” Sam says, confidently.

“I think you might be confused, bro.”

“Nope,” Sam says. “Not confused. Crystal clear. I’m 21, Dean. I made it.”

“Yeah…?” Dean’s right eyebrow raises with the question.

“When all this started,” Sam begins, waving a hand around him, “I kept thinking I just wanted to turn 16. There was something about turning 16 that felt compelling.”

Dean jumps in. “Sorry, man, I really wanted to find the watch before you were 16. I know Dad said he’d pass his on when-”

“Stop, Dean,” Sam interrupts. “This is perfect. Right now, it’s perfect. This doesn’t have to do with that. Honest. So, anyway, I thought, how could I die before I turn 16? And then, then I made it to 16. It was just another day that passed by. After that, it became - I can’t die before I turn 21. That’s not okay. I’ve got to at least make it to 21.”

“Jesus, that’s dark,” Dean says, taken aback at the grim turn of the conversation.

“Well, our whole lives are dark,” Sam huffs out with a sardonic laugh. “It wasn’t morbid,” he muses. “More like a goal, I guess. A milestone I wanted to hit. And honestly, it’s kept me going sometimes.”

“‘Not morbid’, my ass,” Dean grumbles, then falls silent.

“So, once I passed 20, I started keeping a lookout for something special for you,” Sam continues.

“For me?” Dean questions.

“Yeah, you. You idiot.”

Dean’s eyebrow is so far up his forehead, it risks never returning. “Throw me a bone, here, Sam.”

“When I was 17, who dragged my ass out of that pile of screechers near Omaha?” Sam asks.

“The more handsome Winchester brother did, of course,” Dean snarks.

“When I was 19 and I fell through the ice in that lake, what did you do?” Sam presses.

“You know exactly what I did. What’s your point?”

“My point is that you risked your own life to get me outta that water, and damn near died of hypothermia alongside me,” Sam says. “And last year, when that bastard Lionel double crossed us and tried to sell me to the highest bidder, what happened then?”

“Really, Sam, your idea of memory lane is just a delight.”

“Delightfully dark, Dean. If I remember correctly, you gutted Lionel and left him lying there trying to put his insides back where they belonged.”

“Well, he was a double crossing bastard,” Dean says, like he’s reporting the weather.

“Exactly. You’ve saved my hide repeatedly. You’ve taken on screechers, frozen lakes, and all the Lionel’s of the world to keep me safe. Safe and alive. The only reason I’m turning 21- is you,” Sam says, all of his earnestness showing on his face in a moment of vulnerability.

“Come on, you’ve held your own a thousand times, and besides, it’s you and me-” Dean begins.

“Shut up, man, don’t even start. You know it and I know it. I made it to 21 because of you. So man up and take the gift. It’s a thank you. It will never be enough, not ever. But it’s all I’ve got right now.” And with that, Sam shoves a small cloth-covered object into Dean’s hands.

Dean can hear a crinkle of packaging under the cloth and he holds the weight of the object reverently.

“You really didn’t have to do this.”

“Again, Dean, shut up.”

“Fine, whatever, Samantha.”

Sam snatches the gift back lighting quick. “Don’t call me Samantha.”

Before Sam can blink, Dean has stolen the package back. Jumping out of reach, he says, “Cut your long locks and I might consider it.”

Dean laughs as he unwraps his gift. He turns towards the fire light so he can see better.

In Dean’s hand lies a package of M&M’s. His favorite candy ever since they were little. He hasn’t had any in… years. It’s been years. Every shelf in every grocery store on the goddamn planet has long been emptied. In wonder, Dean asks, “How did you find this?”

“You’re not the only one who can keep their eyes peeled.” Sam says and grins ear to ear at seeing Dean’s reaction. “And maybe I bartered a favor a few towns back.”

Dean’s eyes might be filling with moisture. Maybe.

Sam barks a laugh and then gets up and stretches again. “I’m hitting the sack, then.”

Dean looks up, still lost in the moment. “Thank you.”

Sam nods. “It’s you and me, Dean.”

Dean watches his brother retreat into the tent. Finally, sitting back down, he stares into the fire for a while longer, holding his treasure.

****

**Quietus**

_Before_

The past four months had been hell on earth. Not just for the Winchester family, but for the entire human race. Until now, Dean couldn’t bring himself to care much outside of their own town. Four months ago, their mother left the house and never came back. Dean’s world shrunk right about then. Screw the rest of the world.

They had waited. And waited. Their dad called every single number that he had found in Mary’s office. Days, then weeks passed. At first the multiple phones in their mother’s office still rang countless times a day. John answered as many as he could, behind closed doors, of course. While Dean kept tabs on the radio, ran surveillance on the empty street, and looted food on the table, their dad kept hope alive for as long as he could.

Dean failed to notice when the phones started ringing less. One night he was playing a board game with Sam and he felt like something was different. It took him the whole night before he finally realized that ‘something different’ was that none of their mother’s phones had rung at all that day.

Not long after that, their dad came to join them at the table while Sam and Dean were eating canned spaghettios. John sat at the table, but instead of trying to give the boys his usual rundown of emergency drills and security measures, he just started crying. Not small, single tears down the cheek -no, this was full blown sobs, coming out of nowhere.

Sam’s eyes widened and then he shrunk back in his chair as if hit by a physical blow. Dean quickly jumped up, pulled Sam with him, and marched Sam into their room, deposited him on their bed and told him to stay put. He took a deep breath before going back out to meet his father at the table. Dread filled his stomach, making it sink like a rock. His jaw tightened and his steps faltered as he approached the table.

“Sorry...s..so...sorry,” John sputtered out between the heaves of his shoulders. His face was buried in his hands and Dean saw tears dripping down his wrists.

Covering the last few feet to the table, Dean lifted a shaking hand and put it on his father’s shoulder. He’d never seen his dad in this state before. And it terrified him. “What’s going on?”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Dean,” John said before another sob tightened his body and caused him to curl in on himself.

“Dad, I need you to talk to me, please,” Dean pleaded, now frustrated at the lack of information.

John took a slow and deep breath, expanding his frame, and then wiped his hands down his face. “Have a seat, son,” he said.

Dean sat down.

“Son, I need to tell you something,” he started, eyes glued to a spot on the table in front of him.

The silence after those words hung heavy. Dean’s heart thumped painfully in his chest.

“I'm sorry, Dean, I’ve known for weeks,” John spat out quickly, and then his face crumbled again.

Dean couldn’t wrap his mind around that statement at first. He didn’t want it to mean what he thought it meant. But what else could his dad be talking about?

“I, I…didn’t know what to do,” John continued, pushing on. “I didn’t want it to be true. I couldn’t believe it. So I kept calling around and checking to see if anyone else had heard from her. And people kept saying the same thing. But they could be wrong, right? It’s possible they got her mixed up with someone else.”

“Mom?” Dean asked, needing to know for sure.

John looked off into the distance now. “I kept thinking the phone would ring one day, and it would be her. And it would all just be a bad dream.”

“Dad, tell me what happened. You owe me the truth,” Dean demanded, trying to maintain some control as he felt the world shift under his feet.

“You know, she’s always been a hero.” John had a small, sad smile on his face now and he finally looked Dean in the eye. “She’s always had to be a goddamn hero. And now she’s gone.”

“Gone where?” Dean shouted, getting angrier by the moment.

“She’s not coming back, son.”

“No, she’s still helping, there’s just too much chaos and she can’t get in touch with us, that’s what you’ve been saying for months now,” Dean reasoned. “You said that we’d stay here, and she’d come back, and then we’d leave together.”

“She’s gone.”

“Stop saying that,” Dean shouted.

“I’m so sorry, so sorry,” John said, shaking his head. “We should have left weeks ago.”

“What?” Dean was at a loss of words. It was all too much to take in.

John leaned in, put his hand on Dean’s knee, and tried to be a calming presence - too little, too late. “I thought, if she comes back, we needed to be here. I couldn’t have her coming back to an empty house, not knowing where we were. I couldn’t have the phone ring and no one here to answer it.” Emotion started to well up in John’s eyes once more. “So we’ve stayed. But I was wrong and I’m sorry. And now we’ve stayed too long.”

“So, she’s…did she…” Dean needed to know. “Did she become one of them?”

John gripped his knee fiercely. “She’s gone, that’s it.” His face hardened right in front of Dean’s eyes. A final tear dropped off his cheek and then there were no more. “You need to go to your room and get your bags, check ‘em, make sure you’ve got all the gear we talked about. Get Sammy ready. We’re going to head out tomorrow.” And with that, he stood up.

“Wait, Dad, wait,” Dean said, mind and gut churning. “What if you’re right? What if she does call? We can wait longer.”

“We can’t, Dean,” John said. “They’re coming. The screechers are closing in on the towns around us, they aren’t keeping to the cities anymore.”

“But what do I tell Sam?” Dean asked.

John’s chin trembled slightly, like he was about to lose control. But he didn’t. “Tell him your mom’s a goddamn hero.” He walked back to Mary’s office, and closed the door behind him.

****

**You and Me Part 1**

_Present_

Montana is drop dead gorgeous. Sam and Dean are still moving north, trying to find a balance between a location cold enough to hold off the screechers, without succumbing to hypothermia or starvation themselves. Even with that heavy mission on their mind, they stop and take pause to soak in the beauty around them. In the midst of the terrifyingly corrupted biology of screechers, Mother Nature still puts on a proud show, boasting the resilience of the planet around them as the season changes.

Dean has studied all the almanacs he can find for this part of the former United States. As the years wore into new routines, they find that winter is the best time of year to hole up and rest from the nomadic and hard-fought life they eke out. The screechers slow down as if hibernating, and as long as Sam and Dean can find a way to stay warm, fed and hidden away, they can rest for awhile.

The brothers fall into step together as Dean leads them up a narrow tree-lined road, over a gentle hill in what seems to be former ranch lands. The road has crumbled from encroaching grass and weeds, but there are no abandoned cars and no other signs of former life. Just brisk air and the chirping of birds to accompany them on their walk. Their packs are fully loaded and their tattered jackets keep the chill out for now. Sam’s rifle is slung over his shoulder and Dean’s pistol is strapped to his thigh holster.

“There are bears in Montana, right?” Dean asks off-handedly.

“Yeah, lots, if I remember right. Black bears and grizzlies,” Sam replies.

Dean tries to hide the stumble in his steps, clearing his throat and straightening up. “Okie dokie. Sounds fun. We can take on bears.” False bravado rings through his words.

Sam laughs, “Don’t worry, I’m fairly sure they are west of where we are. No reason to be scared.”

“I’m not scared,” Dean says, irritated. “Since when am I scared of anything?”

“Hey man, no judgement, bears are scary. I’ll protect you, Dean-o,” Sam grins.

“Do I have to remind you of the time you watched _IT_ while Mom and Dad were away? Ever since, you turn white at the sight of a clown,” Dean huffs.

“Hey, at least bears are natural. Killer clowns- not natural,” Sam defends.

“Well, there’s no one else I’d rather go up against a bear or a clown with, Sammy.” Dean knocks shoulders good naturedly with Sam as they continue down the road.

Sam looks down at his watch, his newly prized possession. “Daylight is burning. Do you think we should set up camp or keep going for a bit more? What’s your gut telling you?”

Sweeping his head around, Dean takes in their surroundings. “Let’s go over the crest of the hill, down a bit, and see what’s ahead, then we can stop,” he decides.

Dean’s instinct pays off. As they gaze out over the next expanse, they see more untamed and overgrown land. But from their position at the crest of the hill, they see in the distance, nestled in a copse of trees, what looks like a picturesque farmhouse and barn. If they keep walking and then take the overgrown path that was probably once a country road, they could be there in an hour, easy. It’s isolated enough and should provide enough protection from the elements. There is enough woodland within walking distance to provide hunting opportunities. This could be exactly what they are looking for.

They fist bump and start walking again. “See, we’re golden,” Dean says, grinning.

“Sure,” Sam agrees. “As long as no one else is there, and as soon as we clear it of screechers, find fresh water to haul, get some hunting done, and set up some perimeter traps. You know, the usual.”

Dean’s smile doesn’t fade, “Exactly - golden. We’re going to sleep in beds tonight! I call dibs.”

“Dibs on what?” Sam asks, confused.

“Doesn’t matter, whatever it is, just know I call dibs.” Dean picks up his pace and they walk to what will hopefully be their winter home.

****

**Cascade**

_Before_

Dean turned 18 in January while they were crossing Kansas into Oklahoma. Dry, desolate landscapes blurred past Dean’s eyes as he rested his head on the backseat window of the Winchester family’s ‘67 Chevy Impala. His father was behind the wheel, driving fast but carefully through a gauntlet of abandoned cars, downed limbs, and rubbish carried by gusts of wind.

The Winchester family had shrunk shockingly fast. After John’s breakdown at the dinner table, five had suddenly become four. Sam cried quietly through his confusion that night when Dean told him their mother wasn’t coming home. When John declared they would have to leave their dog Toby behind, Sam’s emotions turned into a geyser. It was as if all of the heartache Sam’s young body could handle came out in one long, mournful wail.

Four thus became three. The remaining Winchesters piled all they could safely carry into their car, along with spare jugs of gas and water, ammunition, two handguns and a rifle.

Dean expected silence from his father, but surprisingly, got the opposite. While he drove, information poured from John’s lips in a torrent. Fact after fact, theory upon theory. The long monologue was punctuated every few minutes with “this is important,” and “are you listening, boys?”

The anger that welled up in Dean simmered. The world as they knew it has ceased to exist; nothing would ever be the same again. The planet around them being turned upside down would have been enough to process all by itself. But now, with the only home they ever knew growing smaller in the rearview mirror and their mom’s place in the front passenger seat hauntingly empty - this was too much.

And so Dean stayed silent while their father talked and Sam cried next to him. Eventually, as miles passed, John’s words dried up, and so did Sam’s tears.

John kept them to deserted towns, breaking into empty roadside motels for shelter. Whenever they neared a city, the roads became congested with debris, and they had to slow to a crawl. Whenever signs of life were spotted, John steered them away, even if it meant backtracking and negating all their progress. Their final destination was a so-called safe zone somewhere outside of Albuquerque, New Mexico.

Navigating around to avoid Santa Fe was more difficult than John expected. He refused to abandon the Impala and proceed on foot. He refused to approach any town that showed signs of inhabitation. It was getting colder in the high desert as well. Their food stash was low, there were fewer cars on the road to siphon gas from, and in general, they were grieving and worn.

The first hand-painted sign they saw that said “Safe Zone--Albequerqe” gave Dean some hope. John just stared at it for a really long time. Sam let them know it was spelled wrong. Subsequent signs were more frequent and slightly more helpful. “Ahead, 20 miles!” and “Welcome survivors” were signs that showed promise.

But as they got closer, John grew wary, and eventually the Impala slowed to a halt.

“I need you to listen to me, Dean,” John began. “I’m not sure what we’re going to find here. But we need to be careful. There’s no guarantee this place hasn’t already been overrun. Even if it’s safe, we don’t know who is in charge and how they are running this place. So we’re going to be extra cautious, okay?

“Of course,” Dean nodded. “What do you want us to do?”

“I want you to stay here while I go scout it out,” John said.

“Are you kidding me?” Dean huffed out, incredulous. “No way. No way are we splitting up.” Dean shook his head defiantly.

“Listen to me, son-”

“I am listening,” Dean interrupted, “and I’m calling bullshit.”

“Watch it, Dean,” John fired back, sternly.

“You can’t be serious, Dad,” Dean said, eyes vulnerable. “Please don’t leave us here.”

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I don’t want to, believe me. But I need to see what’s up ahead, and I don’t want to risk taking you two without knowing what we’re dealing with. I won’t be long. I just want to duck into the treeline, follow the road a ways until I can see the perimeter of the safe zone. I won’t be gone for more than an hour or two, tops.”

“Just, come on, let us go with you, please, we’ll stay in the trees,” Dean resorted to begging.

Sam watched the exchange and his own anxiety rose. “Please don’t, Dad, we can stay together. It’s a safe zone, we’ll be okay.”

“I’ve made up my mind,” John stated firmly. “It’s two hours, you’ll both be fine. We’re off the road enough that the car can’t be seen, but you two stay down and out of sight, you hear me?”

Sam could not handle it any longer and just started chanting “Don’t go, don’t go, don’t go, don’t go” while holding his head in his hands. Dean was torn between comforting his brother and yelling at his father. John was out of the car and around to the trunk, gathering supplies, while Dean was still trying to wrap his mind around what was happening.

Dean decided to leave Sam be for the moment and got out of the car to confront their father. “I don’t see why we can’t just go with you. Sam isn’t going to handle this well.”

“He’ll be fine,” John spits out, frustrated. “You can handle him for a couple of hours.”

Dean tried to reason with his father, “Can’t we just camp out in the car here tonight and talk about this tomorrow, you know, just give us some time to catch up to you.”

John closed the trunk lid a little too forcefully, and then slung his bag over his shoulder. He walked to Dean and put a hand on his shoulder. “I need you to watch out for Sammy, Dean.”

“Yeah, of course. But what-”

“Just promise me,” John interrupted.

“Yeah, Dad, I promise,” Dean agreed, but still angry and confused.

John took another moment to look Dean up and down. “I can’t believe how grown up you are, 18 already.” He shook his head and then gathered himself. “There are some things I haven't told you yet. Things you need to know.”

Dean just stared at his father, willing him to continue.

“When I get back, we’ll talk,” John stated, then straightened his bag, and turned toward the car. He opened the door next to Sam, and reached in and ruffled Sam’s hair before pulling him into an awkward hug. Sam was still muttering in distress, but leaned into his father until John pulled away.

John gave them one last look. “See you in a few hours.”

“Dad, wait-” Dean started.

“Just take care of your brother, Dean,” John said over his shoulder, without stopping.

Dean watched as his father disappeared into the treeline, heading along the direction of the road to Albuquerque. He watched until his dad was just a speck in the distance.

The Winchester boys waited, as they were told to do. Sam eventually settled down and fell asleep, exhausted from his worry. Dean sat with one eye on the road, and one eye on his watch.

Twenty minutes turned to thirty. Then thirty turned into an hour, which turned into two hours. Time kept moving forward, and the road remained empty. The sun set, and Dean stared at the road until the last ray of light left the sky and there was nothing left to be seen.

Morning came after a sleepless night. Dean blocked out Sam’s constant questioning and kept his eyes on the road, offering meaningless platitudes when he could muster up the will. “It’s going to be fine, Sammy, don’t worry.”

Evening came again. John Winchester didn’t come back.

And three became two.

**You and Me Part 2**

_Present_

From far away, the single story farmhouse and barn looks rustic and beautiful. Up close, the reality is an overgrown and deteriorating mess. But nothing can tamp down Dean’s excitement. He sees past the brokenness and envisions the potential.

They approach carefully, keeping to the trees, taking time to check out the surrounding area. There’s no movement in or around the property.

“What do you think, should we start with the barn?” Dean asks.

“Sounds good,” Sam agrees. “It seems structurally sound, at least from a distance. If we rustle up any screetchers in there, it should draw out any in the house and we can deal with them out in the open. Or, retreat to the trees if needed.”

“Roger that. If it all goes to hell, we’ll head back to the main road, got it?”

They rise together from the tree line, weapons raised, and walk slowly toward the barn. There are no sounds besides the light swish of their legs as they tread through the high wild grass. Arriving at the doors, they both give a sigh of relief that nothing has stirred.

The double doors of the barn have rusted off their hinges and are now sunken into the ground, still shut. Dean gives it all a keen look over before deciding to wedge an errant tree limb at the edge of one door, creating enough of a crack between the door and frame for them to not only get in, but have the option to get out quickly if needed.

Ducking inside the barn, they are struck with the overwhelming smell of rot. It’s evident several creatures have crawled in here to die over the years. They give their eyes a minute to adjust to the dim light coming through the slats of wood, the sun now falling lower in the sky. Terrible smell aside, they realize they have hit the jackpot. Tools of all sorts line the walls, tarps and plastics are piled in one corner, and a collection of small wagons and carts, wheels still intact, sit there, waiting to be used. There’s a tractor, spare tires, and what looks like equipment for cattle pens.

“This is amazing. Never thought I’d be so happy to see a pull-wagon again. That’s going to make getting a deer back here so much easier.” Sam says, giddy.

Dean reverently runs his hands over the assorted tools, dreaming of what he can build. “Winters can’t be too bad here, if this place is still in one piece after all this time. We’ve got time to get set up, stock up on game. I could get a good fence line going,” he muses. “Can you imagine if we found some wild cattle? What I wouldn’t give for some milk. Scratch that. A burger. I would make a burger that would be the burger of the decade...literally.”

“Let’s check out the house, and then we’ll know for sure where we stand.” Sam says, moving back to the barn doors. As Dean goes to join him, he stops short.

“Wait, Sam.”

“What is it?” Sam asks, knowing that tone of his brother’s voice.

“Does this seem too easy to you?” Dean’s head tilts a bit as the gears in his mind turn.

Sam shrugs. “So far so good, we still have to check the house. What’s worrying you?”

Dean hesitates, “Just a feeling. You know what the last few years have been like. Every place we’ve gone is already raided. There’s never this much left in one place. So, if all of this is here, what kept people from taking it?” he wonders, working out his thoughts out loud.

“We’re in the middle of nowhere. It could be this place just has been passed over. It’s rare, but it happens. Montana was sparsely populated to begin with. Fewer people, fewer screechers,” Sam reasons.

Dean considers this for a moment before gathering himself and moving toward the door. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, let’s go check the house.”

Again, they slowly approach the house, weapons up, eyes and ears alert to any movement or sound. At the porch, they relax a bit. If there were screechers inside the door, they would have picked up on their scent by now.

Sam’s excitement ramps back up. “How far is the nearest town again? We can do a run for anything that hasn’t been looted. And surely a house like this had hunters, so they’ve got to have ammunition stored somewhere, right?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Let’s do a sweep. Stick together. Left first,” Dean instructs. He doesn’t need to kick the door down, it’s deteriorated enough to swing open without force. They move inside, totally in sync, a choreographed dance they’ve done a hundred times.

It’s their number one rule. No matter where they are and what they are doing, they don’t separate in a new place or an unknown situation. This place is no different. Together they move into what appears to be the living room. The house isn’t huge, so they get the lay of the land quickly. Dining area, kitchen, pantry, hallway, a couple of bedrooms. It’s all empty. They stay quiet and check around every corner and open every closet. Nothing - there’s nothing living or dead in the house.

Between the kitchen and hallway, there's another door. They both stand in front of it, realizing it must lead to a basement. They have learned over the years that basements can be a gold mine of goods and supplies.

Dean reaches for the door handle, but Sam clasps his hand quickly and holds it firmly in place.

“Wait,” Sam whispers. “Listen.”

They freeze for a moment, Dean trusting his brother’s instincts. He focuses on his hearing.

Sure enough, sounds start to emerge through the silence. It’s coming from below them. Faint at first. Scraping, shuffling. A low sound that barely registers until Dean tunes into it.

“Damn, Sammy, how’d you pick that up?” Dean whispers.

“Consider it a gift of my youth,” Sam offers. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Depends,” Dean considers, “are you thinking there’s a whole mess of screechers down there, hibernating? Someone probably trapped them so they could get away.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Sam says, resigned.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean lets out a little too loud, and Sam’s eyes widen at the noise. Dean has the decency to look sheepish as he continues. “As soon as they hear or smell us, it’s game over. We don’t know how many are down there. We don’t know the layout of the basement.”

Sam looks around, not responding. He first lays his pack down near the front door, then moves toward a kitchen window shutter that is hanging down, providing long slats of wood for their disposal. He gently tugs it off it’s last hinge, the old wood giving way freely, and pulls the slats apart. “We need to reinforce this door.”

“What are you thinking?” Dean is curious. He follows Sam’s cue and sets his pack down as well.

Sam continues looking around and gathers things as he talks. “This house is a god-send. We’re not letting a bunch of screechers scare us off. We’ve had a lot worse than this thrown at us before, so we’re going to figure this out.”

“All right,” Dean agrees, “talk to me.”

“As crazy as it sounds, we just need to buy time right now. We keep them down there, we stay up here. We get the basics settled, and once we’ve got a better plan tomorrow, we take them out and have this whole place to ourselves.”

“You expect me to sleep knowing they’re down there?” Dean asks, incredulously.

“Not in here, no. I think we should sleep in the barn tonight so we don’t set them off. It’s too risky to stay in here. But getting this door reinforced is step one. And the sun is going down fast. I saw some rope in the barn. With these slats, the rope and the bookshelf in the living room, I think I can barricade the door enough, and quietly enough, to leave them alone until tomorrow.”

Dean looks uneasy. “I don’t know, Sam, I understand the idea, but this still isn’t sitting right with me.”

They’ve had to make enough decisions together over the years that the brothers are practiced in how to deal with this kind of stand off. “Okay, give me an alternative option,” Sam requests.

Dean thinks about it for a moment. “We hike back to the main road, a safe distance away, the way we came. It was clear road. We can camp out off the road. Head to the town tomorrow and check for more supplies. We can see along the way what else is out here.”

Sam nods, but quickly counters. “We’ve got a perfectly good option in front of us right now. What else is bothering you?”

“Just a bad feeling. Can’t that be enough?”

“I’m not discounting it,” Sam soothes, “but let’s consider it all before deciding. We need to be together on this. You and me, right?”

“Yeah, you and me,” Dean agrees.

“Are you sure this bad feeling isn’t just eight-year-old stale M&M’s hitting your stomach?” Sam teases.

“Shut up, dude. I’ll have you know there are still some left. I’m rationing.”

“Okay. Well, if you want to go back to the idea of camping out, let’s talk about precautions against bears.”

Dean’s eyes go wide and his voice turns to a whispered squeak. “What? No, Sam, you said they weren’t around here.”

“I didn’t say there weren’t around here at all, just that they were probably west of here. You never know, so we’d need to be prepared. From what I remember reading, we’d need to make sure-”

Dean interrupts, “Okay, fine, we’ll barricade the door and sleep in the barn.”

Sam doesn't hide his smile.

“Bastard. You play dirty,” Dean complains, but goes back to business. “What do you need for the door?”

“Can you keep taking this shutter apart while I go to the barn for the rope?” Sam asks.

“Let’s just go together,” Dean says.

“It’ll be fine, Dean. Go around to the kitchen so there’s less chance they’ll hear you. There’s a back door there, you can scram fast if they wake up. I’ll just be outside.”

“No, we still go together,” Dean resists.

Sam puts the slats of wood in Dean’s hands, physically turns him to the kitchen, and pushes gently. “Go, I’ll be right back. We’re fighting daylight.” With that, Sam slips out the front door.

Dean knows he’s lost the battle, so he tiptoes to the island in the middle of the kitchen, laying the shutter down quietly, and continues pulling the joints apart. The wood melts like butter, it’s so fragile and rotten. The sinking feeling in his stomach isn’t letting go, but he trusts his brother with his life. It will just be a few minutes.

A thump from below startles Dean and he almost drops a piece of wood while his heart leaps in his chest. Pulling his gun from its holster, he steps closer to the basement door, then freezes to wait and listen. No more sound follows. As his heart rate decreases, Dean decides a screecher must have knocked something over, and he’s overreacting.

Pivoting back to the kitchen, Dean takes a step and feels a slight give in the floor. Looking down, he sees what they had both failed to notice before. The old farmhouse has a wooden floor. The same wood they've seen rotting on doors and window frames all around them. Dean takes another slow and careful step to the kitchen door, the closest door to him now. Not only does the floor give a few inches, but the wood groans below him. And it’s way too loud.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Dean mutters, needing to decide in a matter of seconds what to do. A low screech rises from below him, raising into high pitched shriek that turns all his hair on end. The decision is easy - get the hell out. He sprints to the door.

Sometimes it’s the silent things that can cause the most trouble. The unknown factor of a burst pipe that has soaked the floors of the kitchen in a vacant house, sitting for years exposed to the weather. Throw in some termite damage and Dean’s solid muscle frame is no match for what turns out to be a paper thin floor.

The screeches from below combined with the groaning wood of the old house clash together as the floorboards collapse underneath Dean, mid sprint. His body falls straight down in a cascade of debris and dust, landing in the basement below.

The roar of screechers can be heard all the way out to the barn.

****

**Screechers**

_Before_

In many ways, screechers were easier to deal with than the typical zombie depicted in movies and comics. Mainly, because they were still human - still living and breathing, just as they had been before they were infected. There was no need for a special weapon or a perfect strike to the head or heart. In order to kill a screecher, you just...had to kill it. That was the easy part.

The harder part was that they were still human. Most people would have been willing to start shooting immediately if faced with a grizzly, rotting creature that was hissing and clawing at them. But when it was an infected friend or sibling, with their hearts still beating in their chests, that was something different. That’s why most people died in the beginning of The End. They just couldn’t raise their weapons.

As human as the screechers seemed, there was no doubt if someone was infected. The first sign of infection was bloodshot eyes. Then came the loss of speech, along with a heightened sense of hearing and smell. Quickly, the infection flooded the brain, and the no-longer-a-person had only one goal - to kill and eat. That’s where they might have lived up to the zombie tropes, just a little.

There was a final nail in the figurative coffin to know that a person was infected. When the transformation was complete and the newly infected smelled or heard their prey, they made it known by opening their mouths and letting out an awful, high-pitched howl. It was a haunting and terrifying sound. But it definitely made it easier to know if they were close by.

Screechers definitely lost their ability to creatively hunt and kill, so their hands and teeth were their main weapons. What they lacked in creativity, they made up for in speed and determination. They survived on blood alone; they didn’t need sleep or water or other more ‘human’ necessities. Strangely, they didn’t like the cold. It slowed them down, almost as if their limbs became heavier the colder it was outside.

As for the infection itself, no one knew where it came from. A whole cohort of people were infected at once all over the world and it spread from there as people were bitten. Those bitten, if they survived the attack, only survived to become screechers themselves. It didn’t take long. The newly infected had to quickly ask for a mercy killing before they lost their voice to screeching.

There were rumors and theories - bio-terrorism, a Biblical plague, an evolutionary culling of the population, etc. And there were people dedicated to finding the source and creating a cure, at least at first. But, it didn’t take long before flat-out survival disrupted everything. Realistically, scientists still had to find food, shelter, and safety, just like everyone else.

This worldwide epidemic leveled the haves and have-nots around the globe. University degrees, nice cars or million dollar bank statements no longer mattered. A few months in, all that was important was wits, grit and survival skills; that is what determined who lived and who died.

Between Sam and Dean, the two of them had just the right amount of smarts, luck, and savy to survive the first year after their dad disappeared. Dean took charge and his dad’s last words were etched in his brain and heart.

Their dad had taught Dean how to shoot while he was in high school, so that was now to their advantage. There were no objections when Dean made sure Sam learned his way around their weapons. Sam took a shine to their dad’s rifle and took care of it reverently.

Though they had gone on family camping trips, neither brother had much in the way of survival skills. Luck was their friend at first, but luck was a fickle bitch. Dean recognized that they needed to adapt and to do so quickly. And that’s where Sam’s status as star student saved them.

Sam knew his way around a library and the written word survived where electronics hadn’t. That meant the boys took to raiding libraries. They lugged around entire encyclopedia sets at first and Sam and Dean would both read as much as possible. Then they would rip out the important topics to keep with them. Soon, both boys could quote chapter and verse of any survival manual ever written.

Dean had an affinity for studying maps. He had an internal compass and a sixth sense about directions that got them from place to place. Sam had a knack for things of the earth. He learned what was growing around them, what was edible, and what would kill them. They rarely stayed anywhere long enough to plant something, but every once in a while, Sam would pull out his precious seed stash and they’d wait in anticipation for something fresh to grow. Together, they became precision hunters. The screechers were not interested in animals, just humans, leaving plenty of fresh game available.

There was one thing they couldn’t learn in books and that was knowing who they could trust. Everyone was out for survival. Some people gathered in communities to share resources. But law, order, government and societal structures no longer existed.

As a freshly orphaned young man of 18 with a traumatized little brother, Dean needed help. They had hidden out for a while and observed a small community from a distance. It was tucked in a cluster of homes in what was formerly a tiny town and seemed as normal as it could be, given the circumstances. They learned a lot in a few weeks with this small group of kind-hearted people. They had to catch up on things they missed in those few months at home while their dad was wasting away in their mother’s office.

They learned that safe zones started in the beginning, but were quickly overrun. Any place claiming to be a safe zone now was considered suspicious and probably just a way to lure good people into the hands of sordid people. Large groups only attracted more screechers, so most survivors kept to small groups, kept quiet, and kept moving as needed. Money no longer had any value. Supplies and skills were the new currency. Those few weeks were a crash-course in life after The End.

When it all went up in flames, screams, and screechers, the Winchester brothers learned to keep their hearts tucked in tight behind iron walls. There was no point in ever becoming a part of something bigger than themselves. Less attachment was better. They had each other and they would survive together.

As they watched the smoke of that little community drift in the air, Dean put a hand on Sam’s shoulder and turned to face him. “You and me, Sammy,” he said, resolutely, “just you and me.”

****

**You and Me Part 3**

_Present_

Dean isn’t knocked unconscious by the fall, so he is still aware of what’s going on as the dust and debris continue to rain down from above. His new perspective has him on his back, staring up into a hole that used to be the kitchen floor. He’s very aware that accompanying the continued groan of wood settling is the sound of screechers delighting in their new prey.

Adrenaline pumping, Dean twists and turns his head to see what’s around him, fearing that any moment a screecher is going to be on him. The sudden movement sends his head spinning. It’s too dark to see much and dust is still heavy in the air. The only good thing he can cling to at the moment is there’s got to be some barrier between him and the screechers or else they would be on him already.

He had definitely hit his head on the way down, or when he landed, but he’s still got his wits about him. He’s laying on rubble, and though his back will be molted black by tomorrow, if he lives that long, he doesn't feel anything wrong with his torso. His legs are another story. The kitchen island had fallen through the floor with him and is now laying in pieces over Dean’s lower body. He needs to move, he knows that, but can’t seem to lift his legs and get his feet under him. Survival instinct is kicking in and Dean knows his body is screaming at him to flee.

A particularly horrible screech has him twisting again, trying to see through the mostly dark area around him. His eye sight settles enough that he realizes he’s not actually in the same room as the screechers. He must have landed in a utility or storage room of some sort that is closed off from the rest of the basement; there is a wall between him and the screechers. But they hear him and they smell him and they obviously haven't eaten in awhile.

Dean tries shifting his legs again and the result is blinding pain shooting from his right ankle to his knee. The granite countertop finally shifts just enough to allow him to pull himself away from the pile of rubble, but the pain is enough to keep him curled up on the floor. He’s read enough anatomy books to know that he has most likely a broken tibula or fibula or both. His lower leg is on fire; he’s not going to be walking out of this room on his own accord.

Sam is outside somewhere and Dean knows he must have heard the commotion. And Dean prays that Sam stays away. Not that Dean believes anyone is listening to his prayer. He just hopes that Sam is smart enough to know when the deck is stacked against them. There’s no way that Sam would be able to fight off this many screechers and get to Dean. Not before it’s already too late. The best thing for Sam to do now is to retreat.

A wave of emotion threatens to take over Dean. This isn’t how he wanted to go. Not alone. It was supposed to be him and Sam to the end. Dean always thought that he’d be the one to go first, at least. He’d die a hundred times over for Sam if he could. But this, this was just stupid, dumb, bad luck.

And damn his brother for splitting up. Damn him for saying he’d be right back. He wasn’t coming back now, and even though Dean didn’t actually want him to come back, he was still surprised how much it hurt. Dean had to breathe deep to keep control of himself.

“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean says to himself. The wails of the screechers are ricocheting through his pounding head. He doesn’t want that to be the last thing he hears, so he talks. “It’s okay. Go and be safe. Please, just go. Don’t be an idiot. Go and find someplace safe. Keep your stupid ass safe, you hear me.” Another wave of pain in his leg leaves Dean panting.

There’s a shift in the screechers movement and it’s worrisome. They had been just trying to pound on the walls and door to get to Dean, but now it seems like they are making a collective effort to move together like a battering ram.

Dean looks around for his gun, it was in his hand when he fell, but he can’t see it in the dark. Moving his hands around him he tries to feel for it. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, Sam, big brother can take care of himself.”

As Dean tries to expand his reach, a loud boom from outside shakes the house and momentarily dampens the sound of the screechers. Everything moves in slow motion after that. The screechers quiet down and then Dean can hear them stumbling as they head to the stairs of the basement and start climbing, the stairs creaking loudly under their weight.

“No. No, no, no.” Horror rises in Dean as he realizes what’s happening. “Damn it, Sammy, no!” Dean crawls toward where he thinks the door to the storage room is.

“Come back, you sons of bitches, I’m over here,” he yells into the dark, still crawling. When he reaches the door, he can’t pull himself up, but he pounds with his fists with all his might. “Dinner is right here, come and get it.”

It seems his yelling has some effect, as at least one screecher resumes its thumping of the door. But Dean can hear the majority of them banging at the top of the basement stairs, where he was on the other side of the door just minutes ago. Sure enough, the basement door gives way with a crash, and Dean can hear the screechers fight to get out of the house, chasing after whatever made that huge sound. More debris falls into Dean’s chamber as they clamor.

“Damn it, Sam, no.” Dean sits with his back against the door and puts his head in his hands, pulling at his hair. “Not this, don’t do this and leave me here. Not without you. You better not die up there.”

Dean raises his head and releases a guttural scream up through the hole above him, letting out his pent up anger and frustration and grief. He then rests his head back against the door. The screecher just on the other side is also wailing, as if releasing its own grief.

The distant crack of a rifle startles Dean. Another shot soon follows, then another. Dean can’t sit still any more. “You don’t get to do this, bastard. You don’t get to go out in a blaze of glory trying to save my ass and leave me by myself. Not an option.”

Dean resumes his sweep for his gun, and for once something goes right. He finds it right near the door and quickly holsters it on his good leg. Steeling himself for the pain, he twists and gets his hands under him, folds his good leg, and heaves himself up, leaning on the door. He bites through his lip, trying to hold in his agony. He steadies himself and takes deep breaths, preparing himself for what’s next.

Hand on the doorknob, Dean takes an experimental hop. It’s exactly as bad as he thinks it’s going to be, but he’ll survive. And so he takes out his gun again, flicks the safety off, and counts down from three. He gets to one and swings the door open, at the same time hopping back and raising his gun. It’s dark enough that his aim is a guess, but he’s close enough that it doesn’t matter. The screecher falls dead at his feet.

Gun still raised, Dean waits for any more noise beyond the door. The only thing he can hear is now coming from outside the house - more gunfire and continued screeching. In this case, screeching is good. It means they are still after Sam, which means Sam is still alive.

“Pull it together, Winchester,” Dean tells himself. “One step- hop,” he corrects himself, “at a time.” He keeps a hold of his gun, but now waves his arms around and takes short hops in the direction he thinks the stairs are in. The last rays of sunlight in the sky are now gone and Dean is navigating by the faint light of dusk filtering in from from cracks around him. He’s preoccupied with waving and hopping when it hits him that it’s gone quiet outside.

“No,” Dean swallows hard. “Not- just, no!” Dean yells at no one. Picking up his pace, he fumbles toward the stairs. But he misjudges his distance and ends up hopping right into the staircase and striking his bad leg on the rail. He goes crashing to the ground, hitting his already pounding head once more on the cold basement floor.

Things fade in and out for Dean in a haze of pain and a crash of adrenaline. He’s unsure of how much time has passed when he tries to blink away the darkness, only to realize that it’s pitch black where he is. No amount of blinking will help. No moonlight can penetrate the basement; he’s alone and it’s completely quiet.

Despair washes over Dean. He wants to fade back into the dark, sleep for a while, and then wake up to discover this is all a bad dream. Sam will tease him for being grumpy and dramatic. They’ll share some stale M&M’s by a fire and talk about their next plan. This current pain-filled shitty reality is not happening.

Dean closes his eyes and starts to hum to himself, something he does to distract himself when his mind is spinning and he can’t sleep. He’s laying flat on his back, sprawled out and shivering in the cold. A stray tear streaks from the corner of eye to his ear, trying to find a path downward. He hums louder.

“Metallica? Really Dean?” Sam’s voice filters down into Dean’s awareness. He opens his eyes futilely, turning his head towards the voice.

“‘M’dreaming?” Dean asks himself.

Sam huffs, then groans. “If you’re dreaming, you could have picked a less painful scenario.” There’s a shuffle and movement around Dean, then a flashlight beam breaks through the darkness. Dean closes his eyes against the intrusion.

“Hey, stay with me, man.” Sam makes his way to Dean, kneeling beside him, setting down the flashlight and lightly tapping Dean’s face. “Wake up.”

“Don’t wanna,” Dean mumbles.

“Tough. Open your eyes, Dean,” Sam commands, none too gently.

When Dean finally opens his eyes and lets them adjust to the light, he takes in the sight of his brother beside him. “Are you really here?”

Sam laughs, “Again, if I came to you in a dream, I’d pick a beach or something.”

Dean’s eyes narrow, taking in Sam’s dirty face, long hair matted to his forehead. His left jacket sleeve is shredded and covered in blood. An ample spray of blood covers both hands.

“You’re...alive,” Dean says, but it comes out more like a question.

“Guilty as charged. You ready to sit up?”

Dean shakes his head. “No, you left.”

“Left? I think you hit your head pretty hard, Dean. We’ll talk later, let's just get you up and out of here.”

“Can’t. Broke m’leg,” Dean informs Sam.

“Shit. Okay, we’ll deal with it. Hang on, let me go get something.” Sam moves to stand back up, but Dean shoots out his hand and grabs Sam’s jacket and yanks him back.

“No!” Dean hisses. “You’re not leaving.”

“It’s okay, it’s okay, calm down,” Sam intones, gently trying to loosen Dean’s grip. “I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”

Dean finally relaxes, but doesn’t let go of Sam. He turns his head once more, making sure his words will be perfectly clear before speaking. “You came back.”

Sam has no witty retort. He knows the weight behind Dean’s words. He knows what they’ve already lost and how much they still stand to lose.

“I came back,” Sam reassures. Then he rests his hand on Dean’s, still gripping his jacket. “It’s you and me, Dean.”

Dean’s chin trembles slightly, but he takes a breath to steady himself and nods. “You and me.”

**End**

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Kudos and comments are treasured (like M&Ms in the apocalypse)!
> 
> Comment challenge - if you are one who reads and enjoys but doesn't usually comment (for whatever reason)... just drop an emoji of your choice that represents your feelings at the end of the story! Give it a try.


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